


bring it on home

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Flirting, Fluff, M/M, Musicians, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-09
Packaged: 2019-08-19 10:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16532552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which Bilbo meets a traveling musician.





	1. Chapter 1

“If this is your idea of an adventure, I’m afraid I have some strong words for you.”

Gandalf huffs, waving his staff in annoyance. “If you want someone to control the weather, dear fellow, I pray you find another wizard.”

Bilbo grumbles, pulling his traveling cloak further down his forehead.

It is a miserable spring evening, thick, grey clouds rolling overhead, heavy with rain and rumbling with thunder. They flash brilliantly in the coming darkness, lightning streaking across them like spiderwebs, an ominous warning of what the night is to bring. Rain is already falling in hard drops, soaking their cloaks and souring their moods.

It smells like wet dirt and goat droppings in Bree, a foul mixture of sludge under Bilbo’s feet and he’s eager for a hot tub to scrub the muck off.

They pass by many buildings, all familiar enough but their destination lies ahead, a sign swinging in the wind, painted with a prancing pony.

Gandalf pushes the door to the inn open and ushers Bilbo inside and together they duck out of the storm and into blessed warmth. It smells like hearty beef stew, ale and baking bread in here, along with wet wood and rain. It is far more homey than the streets were and more than one hearth lines the walls in here though most are surrounded by patrons already.

Bilbo only half listens as Gandalf and the barkeep exchange pleasantries, gazing around the inn. There are many groups of men here, some more welcoming than others in their cups, but it is the group of dwarves huddled in one corner that catches Bilbo’s eye. In all the times he has come here with Gandalf, he has not seen so many dwarves at once. They don’t travel much from their mountain homes and when they do, it’s not such a large group. Bilbo counts thirteen dwarves before Gandalf distracts him by leading him to the last free table near a hearth.

They order meals of stew and ale and pull out their pipes in the meantime, Gandalf lighting them both with a flick of his finger.

“I do believe we’re in for a treat tonight,” Gandalf says after a while of puffing on their pipes, inclining his head toward the corner of the inn.

Bilbo follows his gaze, looking at the dwarves. “A treat? In what way?”

“Do use the eyes in your head, Bilbo Baggins.”

He frowns, taking up his ale after a barmaid drops it off, and surreptitiously eyes the dwarves. It takes him a moment to realize they are holding instruments in their hands and on slightly closer inspection, he sees flutes and viols and even a golden harp laid against the wall.

“They’re musicians!” Bilbo says cheerfully, his mood increasing tenfold. “Traveling musicians, do you think?”

“Perhaps,” Gandalf says, watching the group with a knowing glint to his eye.

“Do you know them?”

“Not personally, no,” Gandalf says rather too enigmatically for Bilbo’s tastes. “But dwarves are great musicians. Enough to rival the elves but you’d do best not to make the comparison.”

Bilbo smiles, sipping his ale, watching as the dwarves prepare themselves. They are arranging tables and chairs to their liking, into a makeshift stage to Bilbo’s eye, and most of the patrons are beginning to turn toward them.

Once the dwarves have settled themselves down, one with a funny hat and moustache stands atop a stool and bows lowly. “The dwarves of the Blue Mountains,” he says solemnly but in such an exaggerated way that many people laugh. “Ye might not have heard of us but ye’ll remember us before the dawn!”

Half or so of the patrons in the inn raise their mugs and shout encouragements and the dwarf smiles broadly, pulling out a flute and putting it to his mouth. The tune that comes is fast and high, trilling and just the right amount of sweet. A ballad perhaps but no dwarves sing to match it.

Another fellow with a great bald head, tattoos inked across it, looking more like a battering ram than a dwarf, lifts his viol and begins to play along.

It is not long before the patrons are stamping their boots and clapping their hands along with the music and Bilbo soaks it in, grinning and wondering if Gandalf planned for their short journey to end in Bree on this night all along. He reminds himself to thank the wizard later and pounds his mug on the table in time with the tune, making sure to not waste any ale as he does so.

The next few songs are of the same ilk, bright and cheery, played by skilled, quick hands, some with singing, some not. It’s mostly the mustached dwarf that does the singing but there is a particular song that all of them join in on, about a maid with very large… well, Bilbo laughs through it at any rate, along with a chortling Gandalf.

The dwarves take requests while hinting strongly at the tip jar on one of the tables and Bilbo happily stands, fetching a few gold coins and tossing them in the jar. The mustached fellow winks at him and Bilbo grins back, looking at the rest of the dwarves now that he’s closer.

They look very much like dwarves, dressed in traveling clothes, beards and braids as immaculate as he’s ever seen. Their clothes are patched in many places and their weapons, while fine dwarvish work, look aged. Bilbo wonders if they make the Blue Mountains their home when they’re not traveling and finds his gaze being drawn toward the back of the group.

While all the other dwarves are gathered together to play, there is one dwarf who sits further back than them. He is by himself at a table, drinking ale, and the only indication that he’s listening to the music is his boot tapping along to the rhythm on the stone floor.

He is dressed finer than the others, Bilbo notes, with dark leathers over blue cloth, a great furred cloak draped over the back of his chair. He has black hair streaked with silver but most of it is shielding the rest of his features and Bilbo heads back to his table filled with anticipation, for a reason he can’t discern.

After a few more ballads, lewd drinking songs, even a few recited poems with the occasional rift from a flute for comedic effect, the dwarves begin to quiet down. Bilbo feels disappointed and whoops with the other patrons, hoping for more, but all begins to make sense when the dwarves clear an area at the front of the stage, which the mysterious lurker in the back comes to. He is carrying the golden harp with ease and seats himself on a stool, gliding his fingers over the strings but not plucking any yet.

Bilbo feels pinned to the spot. Now that he can see the dwarf’s face, he feels his heart skip a beat. The dwarf’s long hair is pushed back over his shoulders, framing a pale, handsome face. He has a pointy nose although it’s a bit narrower than the other dwarves’ and his beard is cut short, not at all like the tumbling masses some of the others sport. The silver streaks throughout his hair only accentuate the sharp curves in his face, neither young nor old, and Bilbo suddenly feels short of breath.

The dwarf doesn’t look out at the crowd, who have all gone eerily silent, but begins to lightly pluck at the harp.

It is a slow melody, beautiful from the start, and Bilbo watches in awe as the dwarf’s fingers move swiftly and delicately over the strings. They are a smith’s hands and don’t look like they should be so graceful but it is clear this dwarf has been playing for many of his long years.

The song moves from slow to swift so suddenly it takes Bilbo by surprise, his heart beginning to pound faster in his breast, taken by the tune. It is not a mourner’s song or a wedding’s bright overture, it is something full of hope and wonder, strong as dwarves are with the grace of their crafts. It fills Bilbo’s blood with air and his stomach with butterflies and he sits on the edge of his seat, enraptured by the sight of the dwarf.

The song ends just when it should and the inn is silent for a moment, just long enough for Bilbo to fear that the dwarves have lost the crowd, before there is an eruption of cheer. Mugs and tankards are banged against tables again and men demand more from the harpist, many coming to drop copper, silver and gold into their tip jar.

Bilbo finds himself unable to look away from the harpist. He has finally turned to face the crowd, nodding elegantly to anyone that praises him, not smiling, exactly, but not frowning either. He has a heavy brow and looks as if he might be a stern fellow but when those eyes turn in Bilbo’s direction, he feels his breath catch.

They are brilliantly blue, like the lightest of forget-me-nots that grow by the Bywater Pool, striking and deep, deeper than any well.

The dwarf stares at Bilbo for a time and he’s hopeless to do anything but stare back until a group of men surround him and Bilbo must look away.

He takes a large gulp of ale, glancing up at Gandalf, who is watching him with amusement, his grey eyes twinkling.

“What?” Bilbo asks warily.

“They are something, aren’t they?” Gandalf returns, sounding horribly smug for someone whose cloak is covered in mud and who knows what else.

“Yes, they are,” Bilbo says, lifting his chin. “And I think I should like to tip them again.”

Gandalf merely smiles and gestures for Bilbo to go about his business.

He hops out of his chair and reaches into his coin purse, pulling out a few too many silvers and gold pieces. He will be home soon and can refill his purse. The performance is worth the inconvenience. Bilbo drops the coin into the jar, glancing at where the harpist sits, and sees that blue eyes are upon his.

The corner of the dwarf’s mouth twitches upward and Bilbo is utterly lost. To be so taken by someone, as a bachelor near fifty, his mother would laugh at him so.

He manages a quick smile in return and hurries back to his seat before he makes an utter fool out of himself in front of the entire inn. Gandalf would never let him live it down.

From the way Gandalf is looking at him, he may never let him live it down regardless, whatever  _ it _ is.

When the patrons have taken their seats again, the harpist begins to sing.

And what a voice it is. Deep, throaty, smooth and hard as iron. A voice that could shake the ground should it try, a voice that can inspire thousands, a voice that can take the heart of one hobbit.

This is their haunting melody. It is a sorrowful song, the harp only plucked occasionally throughout it, soft and making each line poignant. It is a song about a lost home, lost to fire and war, a song about death but the birthing of hope. It is a song meant to be heard by all but only to be sung by this dwarf.

Bilbo feels tears well in his eyes, breathing shallowly, watching the dwarf bare his soul for all in Bree to see.

It ends too quickly for Bilbo, who could listen to that voice for the rest of his life, he thinks, but he stands with everyone else and claps his hands as hard as he can.

The dwarf bows his head, keeping his eyes low, and stands when the other dwarves do. They all bow together, to uproarious applause, and the mustachioed fellow stands on the stool once again.

“The dwarves of the Blue Mountains!” he cries, met with thunderous cheer. “And we deal in coppers, silvers, gold pieces and gold bars, if ye please.”

There is a good amount of laughter at this and more generous tipping to be had, along with rounds of ales for the musicians. Two of them, a brunet and blond, take their offered tankards and down them in one gulp, much to the amusement of the other dwarves.

They seem like a merry bunch and Bilbo smiles as he watches them before turning back to Gandalf. “A treat indeed. You knew they would be here, didn’t you?”

“A happy chance, I assure you,” Gandalf says, still puffing on his pipe, looking more relaxed than Bilbo’s seen him in a while.

Bilbo nibbles on what bread is left on his plate, resisting the urge to turn and look at the loud rabble of dwarves. “The one with the harp was very good, wasn’t he?”

“Very good indeed,” Gandalf murmurs, raising his eyebrows at Bilbo. “Though perhaps not one for as much merrymaking as the others.” He inclines his head toward his left.

Bilbo glances over, heart clenching in his chest to see the harpist sidestepping well-wishers, headed out for the back door of the inn, a pipe held in his hand.

Oh, Bilbo wants to. He shouldn’t but he desperately wants to. He turns back to his ale, drinking the rest of it, glancing up at Gandalf, who is watching him with an air of expectancy.

“I think…” Bilbo says after a moment of dawdling, “…that I shall return momentarily.”

“Of course, of course, take all the time you need, dear fellow. I will indulge in another ale,” Gandalf says, sounding very amused.

Bilbo blushes a bit, standing from his chair and picking up his own pipe. He begins to head for the back door, passing by the group of dwarves as he does, who raise their mugs to him in what he assumes is thanks for the tip. He waves hastily at them and is met with a wall of chilly air as he pushes the door open. It is still raining but there is a veranda back here and halfway down it stands the dwarf, shielded in shadow, the burning embers of his pipe the only thing that lights his features.

Feeling as if this is suddenly not a very good idea but wondering if he’ll regret not saying anything later, Bilbo steps further out onto the veranda, lighting his pipe with mildly trembling fingers. He glances out through the curtain of rain, seeing no travelers on the street, the mud too high and the hour too late.

Bilbo tries to think of something to say, a compliment that won’t sound generic or like an obligation, his nerves slowly beginning to fail him, when the dwarf half turns toward him.

“You were generous to us,” he says in that same deep, sorrowful voice.

“Oh,” Bilbo says, surprised, edging a bit closer so he won’t have to raise his own voice. “Yes, well… you lot deserved it. I haven’t heard such wonderful music since Gondor!”

The dwarf turns fully toward him now, watching Bilbo from over his pipe, some astonishment in his gaze.

“You have been to Gondor?”

“About ten years ago, yes,” Bilbo says, feeling a bit foolish. There aren’t many who would believe a hobbit would go much further than their round doors and it sounds rather boastful now that attention has been called to it. “But there was no harpist there that I heard that was quite as wonderful as you.”

Embarrassed by his honesty, Bilbo hurriedly says, “And the others as well! You are a very talented group of dwarves.”

The dwarf stares for a time, smoke billowing around his cheeks, his eyes rather soft around the edges. He inclines his head. “Thank you, Master Hobbit.”

“Bilbo Baggins,” Bilbo says quickly and winces. “My name, if you’d like it.”

“That I would,” the dwarf says, setting Bilbo’s heart racing. “And for you to have mine. Thorin.”

Bilbo’s mouth feels dry. “Thorin,” he repeats, just to feel it roll off his tongue, which it does so very well. “It’s good to meet you, Thorin. Are you lot traveling back to the Blue Mountains?”

“Aye,” Thorin says. “We have traveled far and now the west calls us home. We will be in Bree for a few nights yet.” He pauses. “I was not aware that many hobbits traveled.”

“That’s because we don’t, not really,” Bilbo says, smiling. “I’m a bit odd in the Shire. Some Tooks travel but not much further than Frogmorton. But I’m afraid once you’ve been harassed enough by a wizard, you tend to let him bully you into adventure.”

“A wizard,” Thorin repeats, sounding both amused and a bit awed. “Not many can say they have traveled with a wizard. Not many from the west can say they’ve traveled so far east.”

“Yes, well… a bit odd, as I said,” Bilbo says, looking out into the rain, feeling self-conscious. “How far have you dwarves traveled?”

“To the White Mountains this time. We have also been to Gondor but it was long ago.”

“Do you have families in the Blue Mountains?”

“Aye, most of us do. Some of us have our families with us tonight,” Thorin says. “My nephews play the flute and the fiddle.”

“Oh, the two youngsters? They were very good as well! Clearly it runs in the family,” Bilbo says, somewhat ashamed of himself for how glad he is that Thorin didn’t say  _ sons. _

“Do not tell them so, their heads run large enough,” Thorin says, amusement in his tone. “Would the Shire welcome us? We have yet to stop there on our way home.”

Bilbo feels hope light in his belly, his toes tingling. “I’m sure those that frequent the Green Dragon Inn would welcome you with open arms. And many mugs of ale.”

Thorin looks contemplative. “Do  _ you _ frequent the inn?”

“I… well, from time to time, certainly,” Bilbo says breathlessly, glad he did not outright lie and say he’s there every night like his first thought had been. “If I knew such fine musicians would be there… not that the Shire’s musicians aren’t very fine but they’re not… dwarves.”

Thorin chuckles. “We all value our own music but we are welcoming to other kinds,” he says. “Perhaps the dwarves of the Blue Mountains should make for the Shire next. There are those among us that know the way.”

“Straight west from here, really, hard to miss it if you’re looking for it, no matter what the big folk say,” Bilbo says. “And the inn is on the Bywater Pool. A large pond.”

“Then that is where we shall go,” Thorin says, low and warm.

“Good… very good,” Bilbo says, filled with an immense amount of joy. To think he might never hear Thorin’s voice again… what a depressing thing that would be. “The others won’t mind going a bit out of the way?”

“For good food, ale and tips? No, I do not think so,” Thorin says, stepping closer. “I will be sure to tell them of the good company as well.”   
  
Bilbo’s breath gets caught in his throat and he coughs a little, his cheeks warm. “I’m glad you think so,” he says, holding Thorin’s gaze. “Would you care to have an ale with me?”

He fears if he doesn’t ask now, his courage will fail him and with Thorin looking at him so, eyes soft and a smile dancing around his lips, well… rejection doesn’t seem likely.

“Aye. I would like that,” Thorin says, putting out his pipe and knocking the ashes out into the rain. “Is the wizard your companion?”

“Oh! Yes, that’s the wizard,” Bilbo says, having quite forgotten about him, which he feels badly for. “Perhaps we should join him for a moment so I can say good night. Then… then we can find a table of our own.”

“He will not mind?”

“Posh! He’ll likely find it all very amusing,” Bilbo says, frowning and wondering again if Gandalf had planned this all along. He couldn’t possibly have known that Bilbo would find Thorin to be so, well, wonderful in every way.

Thorin himself looks amused and inclines his head, gesturing at the door back into the inn. Bilbo puts out his own pipe and goes back inside, met with warmth and the smell of ale and pipe-weed smoke. It is quite loud, patrons still enjoying the buzz of the music, and Bilbo notices that Thorin seems to be walking on his right so as the avoid the gaze of the other dwarves and wonders if it’s because he’s embarrassed or afraid of a little teasing. He hopes it’s the latter as he thinks he would be quite upset otherwise.

Gandalf is still sitting at their little table, two mugs of ale laid out in front of them, and watches them as they approach, his eyes twinkling somewhat worryingly.

“Gandalf, this is-”

“Thorin Oakenshield!” Gandalf says, keeping his voice low enough that Bilbo wonders about it. “Yes, I have heard of the dwarves of the Blue Mountains. And what fine musicians they are.”

Thorin looks wary now, something else for Bilbo to wonder about, but he bows his head. “Thank you,” he says. “My grandfather spoke of you when I was a lad. I did not think to find you in Bree, Tharkun.”

“Ah, yes, Thror,” Gandalf murmurs. “His passing was some time ago yet I am still sorry for it. You seem to have inherited his knack for the harp.”

Bilbo stares in wonder between them, surprised as he always is that Gandalf seems to have known everyone that ever lived, let alone Thorin’s grandfather. He wonders what dealings they had together but decides it’s not his business to ask such a personal question.

“I was barely older than a babe when he gifted me my own harp,” Thorin says. “He taught me well enough that I can make a living on the road.” He smiles lightly at Bilbo at these words.

“Well, I shall no longer keep you, as it seems that you and Bilbo have plans for the evening,” Gandalf says merrily. “The table is yours. I am off to find some shut eye. Do remember we leave after first breakfast, Bilbo Baggins, and plan for your headache accordingly.” He stands swiftly, takes up his staff, waving it, and bustles off toward the stairs.

Bilbo huffs, blushing a bit, and gestures for Thorin to take a seat, hopping into his own chair. “Hobbits only get headaches when partaking of moonshine for the evening, you know,” he says. “We are a stouter bunch than that.”

Thorin sits, smiling at Bilbo. “As are dwarves. Does he expect you to have moonshine tonight?”

“I certainly hope not. The only good moonshine is in the Shire, as I’ve come to learn the hard way. My neighbor brews it just right. Hamfast Gamgee and if you do come to the Shire, you should give it a try.”

“My nephews will try to get me to drink it,” Thorin says with a glance toward the dwarves, still grouped together in the corner of the inn. “But I do not fare well on moonshine.”

“No?” Bilbo asks, laughing. “And why not?”

Thorin’s cheeks turn red, a most endearing sight. “I sing,” he mumbles, flagging down a barmaid and ordering two fresh ales. He glances back at Bilbo, looking pained. “And not well.”

Bilbo grins, folding his hands together. “That’s a sight I would like to see. I doubt there’s ever a time you sing poorly, even when you’re in your cups. Perhaps I should conspire with your nephews.”

“Please do not,” Thorin says, pleading but his eyes are crinkled in amusement. “They need no further partners in crime.”

Bilbo laughs. “We’ll see how it unfolds in the Shire,” he says. The barmaid comes by, dropping off their ales, and Bilbo takes a sip of his. “Gandalf called you Oakenshield. Is that your given name?”

Thorin hesitates, no longer smiling. “We do not have surnames like men or hobbits. Oakenshield was a name given to me for deeds I have done,” he says, his voice low. “It is not what I call myself on the road. I wish to be known for my music.”

“I see,” Bilbo says, enormously curious about what deeds Thorin has accomplished in his life but not thinking it would be a good idea to ask him. Not yet anyway. “How did your grandfather know Gandalf?”

“The wizard traveled to our mountain during his lifetime and they became known to each other. It was not friendship but respect. My grandfather was a warrior in his time and commanded it,” Thorin says, drinking from his own ale. “But he told tale to my siblings and I of the wandering wizard.”

“He’s an interesting figure in Middle Earth’s history, isn’t he?” Bilbo muses mildly. “It sounds as if your grandfather was as well. Are your siblings here tonight? You said some of you lot were family.”

Thorin shakes his head. “No, my sister is back in the Blue Mountains. She would like to travel with us but she is needed there,” he says, looking somewhat rueful. “My brother died many moons ago.”

“Oh, goodness, I’m sorry to hear it,” Bilbo says quickly but there is no obvious pain lurking in Thorin’s eyes, only acceptance. “Your nephews must miss their mother.”

“Aye,” Thorin says, smiling now. “Not when she’s dragging them by their ears but they do otherwise.”

“Troublemakers, are they? I have many young cousins that are much the same. Always stealing carrots from Farmer Maggot’s crops.”

“Farmer Maggot?” Thorin asks, chuckling.

“An unfortunately named fellow and just as nasty a sight with his rake,” Bilbo says, grinning and nursing his ale. “What are your nephews’ names?”

“Fili and Kili,” Thorin says with some pride. He surreptitiously points toward the group. “The blond is Fili, the brunet to his side Kili. They are only five years apart and nigh inseparable.”

Bilbo looks at the boys, both laughing uproariously at whatever tale the mustachioed dwarf is telling, sloshing ale everywhere. “What handsome lads,” he says. “Tell me the others’ names?”

Thorin smiles and points out each dwarf in turn.

There is Bofur, the one with the mustache, and he is a gifted toymaker when he’s not singing on the road. His brother Bombur, a rotund fellow with a great red beard is next, a man with a large family waiting back home for him. Their cousin Bifur, another toymaker, with a gruesome injury that somehow led him to being able to play the fiddle very well. Then there are the brothers Dori, Nori and Ori, all skilled in crafts and misdemeanors, according to Thorin, who speaks fondly of them all. Balin and Dwalin are also brothers and Dwalin is Thorin’s closest friend when they are not arguing with each other. The last two are also brothers, Oin and Gloin, a healer and banker respectively and both fine string instrument players.

They seem mismatched but like family still, all close and merry. Not one of them isn’t smiling and laughing and Bilbo feels a yearning to join them when they come to the Shire. He has friends, yes, but none quite as boisterous as these dwarves and they seem like they’d make for a very good time. As long as he gets to spend some time with Thorin just like this as well, he thinks he could not ask for a better night.

Thorin tells Bilbo stories of their time on the road, of the places they’ve been to and the crowds they have entertained. It sounds like a fascinating life, if not a bit lonely away from their families, but they make good coin and spend the winter and spring months back in the Blue Mountains, working on their crafts rather than music there.

Bilbo listens to it all in rapture, drinking his ale, thinking he could listen to Thorin’s voice for the rest of his life. He is not the loudest of them but he is the biggest presence, to Bilbo’s mind, and the most handsome and endearing one of them all. His smiles and fleeting laughter are enough to set Bilbo’s heart racing and he tries not to stare too obviously at Thorin but Thorin is staring back and he thinks that perhaps he isn’t being rude at all.

In turn he tells stories of his own friends and family members, describes his cousins antics and what Bag End looks like and how much he enjoys baking and gardening. Thorin asks him many questions about Bilbo’s travels and Bilbo tends to ramble after his third ale but Thorin looks nothing but snared in by his stories.

“My parents passed away before I became of age and I inherited my father’s properties the moment I did. It was all very stressful, trying to navigate my way through without their help,” Bilbo admits when Thorin asks him why he started traveling to begin with. “Gandalf came to me on my thirty-fifth birthday and declared that my current life wouldn’t do and that we must away come morning. He took me to Rivendell and after that, came by every few years or so and took me even further.”

“I am glad that he did. We would not have met otherwise,” Thorin says, quiet and contemplative.

And Bilbo can do nothing but ramble even more after that, unable to stop smiling.

“It has gone quiet,” Thorin says after a while, looking around, sounding amused. “The hour must be late.”

Bilbo glances around as well, his head swimming, and is surprised to see that most of the crowd has left. There are only a few tables occupied by quiet patrons and when he looks at where the dwarves were, only the elders remain. Though it looks like Bofur has passed out under the table and Bilbo hopes that someone tends to him before the end of the evening.

“I suppose it must be. I didn’t quite notice,” Bilbo says, drinking the last of his ale and staring sadly down at the empty mug. It is much too late for another one and he has to get up much too early to entertain the thought of staying out here all night with Thorin, as much as he’d like to. “I’m afraid I have to wash my feet.”

He blushes when he’s realized what he’s said, coughing. “All the mud from earlier left them a mess.”

“I had thought tales of bootless Shirelings were exaggerated,” Thorin says, grinning. “How is it that you travel over mountain ranges without shoes, Master Baggins?”

“They’re better suited for traveling than any boot you can wear, believe you me,” Bilbo says, shaking his finger. “My soles are like leather.”

“I do believe it,” Thorin says, his speech somewhat slurred and his cheeks tinged pink. “Shall I walk you to your door?”

“Oh… oh well, yes, that’d be lovely,” Bilbo says, reaching for his coin purse.

A large hand comes to rest over his other, warm and calloused. “Allow me,” Thorin says, smiling. “You have given enough of your coin this evening.”

“Are you sure?”

“Aye,” Thorin says, pulling out enough coin to pay for their ales. He gives it to a passing barmaid and looks at Bilbo. “It is the least I can do for what you have given me tonight.”

“And what is it I’ve given you?” Bilbo asks, his heart racing as he stands from the table, not as wobbly as he expected, especially since he can’t keep his eyes off of Thorin.

“Good company and cheer,” Thorin says, standing and coming to Bilbo’s side. “As fine a companion as I could have hoped for tonight.”

Bilbo has the strongest urge to ask Thorin to continue being his company tonight but he knows that may ruin whatever is going on between them. Because there is something there, Bilbo can feel it all the way down to his toes, and he doesn’t want to sour it.

It doesn’t help that Gandalf is already asleep in their shared room either.

“I’m… I’m glad I could be,” Bilbo says, beginning to walk with Thorin across the inn and to the stairs. “I’d like to do it again in the Shire.”

Thorin is quiet for a moment, enough to make Bilbo fear he has overstepped, until they are at the top of the stairs and Thorin says, “Aye, I would not leave the Shire without sharing another ale with you.”

Bilbo smiles to himself, walking down the hall until they stop in front of his room. “Good,” he says, bouncing on his toes. “But… I was thinking that perhaps we could have dinner together.”

Thorin’s cheeks burn an even brighter red than before but he is grinning nonetheless, looking very pleased. “At Bag End?”

Bilbo laughs. “Yes,” he says, feeling giddy. “I’d like to cook for you. A steak and mushroom pie, my finest.”

“And for dessert?”

“I think I’ll have to keep that a surprise.”

Thorin steps closer, smiling warmly, his eyes infinitely soft. “Keep your secrets. I shall know in a few days’ time,” he says, his hand reaching slowly out, as if he’s looking for permission.

Bilbo gives it gladly, taking Thorin’s hand and feeling his breath catch in his lungs when Thorin lifts it to his mouth, placing the gentlest, chastest kiss to the back of it.

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, smiling up at Thorin, wanting nothing more than to grab him and kiss him in the middle of this hall in Bree. But he stops himself, thinking that it would not be quite right.

In front of his hearth at home seems the best place to do it. Or perhaps atop Bag End and under the stars.

“May I see you off on the morrow?” Thorin asks quietly. “I will be up in time for… first breakfast.”

Bilbo chuckles, a bit breathlessly, and nods. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll see you then, Thorin. Good night.”

“Good night, Bilbo Baggins,” Thorin says, as if he’s savoring the feel of Bilbo’s name.

Bilbo hesitates before quickly leaning up on his toes, placing a kiss to Thorin’s bearded cheek. Perhaps trading kisses in this hall is not such a bad idea after all. He turns to the door, opening it and stepping inside, looking back at Thorin, just in time to see his fingers graze over his own cheek.

Thorin lowers his hand, looking embarrassed, but he smiles at Bilbo and inclines his head before he is off down the hall.

Bilbo watches him go until he disappears and steps further into the room, closing the door. He looks at one of the large beds in the corner, where Gandalf is sleeping, his great hat covering his face.

He heads to his own bed, lightheaded and feeling better than he has in an age, climbing under the covers without so much as a thought about his dirty feet. He settles down, staring up at the dark ceiling, his heart pounding in his chest. There is not a time in his life that he can recall ever being so head over heels for someone so soon after meeting them.

Thorin is special and Bilbo will not see this chance go to waste, living such different lives be damned.

“Yes, I do believe that went well,” Gandalf murmurs, too coherent to be in his sleep.

Bilbo huffs, rolling onto his side, and grins.

And a few days later, under the bright moonlight of a Shire evening, he weaves forget-me-nots into Thorin’s hair and kisses him under the stars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge shout out to my wonderful beta [telltalelily](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/telltalelily) for being absolutely awesome!
> 
> I just wanted to write them flirting. I may continue this with a second part in the Shire but I'm not totally sure yet! If you enjoyed this at all, please remember to leave kudos and a comment! Thank you!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


	2. Chapter 2

On a much clearer afternoon in the Shire, Bilbo sits at his kitchen table, eating crackers with salted meats and cheeses and drinking a pot of vanilla chamomile tea.

It is an average spring day, the sunshine warm and the flowers blooming, bringing in their sweet scent through the open window. Bilbo has seen to all his chores for the day, as well as gardening and baking a cherry pie, to add to the sweet potato pie he baked just last evening.

If he is baking in hopes that someone shows up on his doorstep to share the bounty with him, well, he doesn’t say so to his neighbors.

It has been three days since he met Thorin. Three long, anxiety-filled days, full of wondering if Thorin will really come to the Shire. Perhaps they were just kind words that Thorin knew Bilbo wanted to hear and he doesn’t plan on coming through at all. Perhaps he and his company will simply pass the Shire by and go to their Blue Mountains, never to be seen or heard from again.

But that’s not giving Thorin enough credit and Bilbo feels badly for the thought. Thorin seemed just as taken by Bilbo as Bilbo was by him… and the Shire isn’t very far out of the way for them. Perhaps in another day or two, Thorin will come and it will be like how it was the night they met, full of brimming hope and sweetly traded kisses.

Bilbo tries not to get lost in either maudlin or too hopeful of thoughts and eats the remainder of his afternoon tea. He cleans up after himself and goes into the sitting room, sitting down with a book in his lap, beginning to read. It will be better to keep his mind busy.

Unfortunately company never comes when it’s convenient and a knock on the door has Bilbo groaning. He has so far avoided visitors today, which makes for a fine day in his opinion, and he is sorely tempted to ignore the knocking. If it’s Lobelia come around to talk poorly about his garden again, he’ll begin pulling his hair out.

But propriety is dug deep into the foundation of Bilbo Baggins and he tosses his book aside, standing and beginning to head down the hall. He straightens his waistcoat and opens the door, looking at his visitor.

Of course he is as radiant as he was in the Prancing Pony, all firelight and shadow. Now he’s sunshine, gleaming, and looks all the more perfect for it.

Bilbo gapes at Thorin Oakenshield, his mouth hanging open, until he snaps it shut and resists the urge to try and tame his hair. A futile attempt it would be anyway.

“You said the top of the hill,” Thorin says, looking fairly amused and a bit sheepish. “Yet I still lost my way twice.”

Bilbo blinks at Thorin, laughter bubbling up from his chest and grins. “I thought traveling musicians might be less prone to losing their way.”

“My nephews would say… not this one,” Thorin says, smiling, his eyes roving over Bilbo’s face.

It brings a bit of a blush to his cheeks but he steps out of the way, gesturing Thorin inside. “I had hoped I would see you soon. I still owe you dinner, if… if you’d like it. If you’re not busy for two hours or so.”

“We do not play in the inn until seven this evening,” Thorin says, stepping inside and gazing around the entrance hall. “You said hobbit holes were a fine work of art… I admit I did not expect such fineness.” He grazes his hand over the wooden archway, looking impressed.

“Hobbits do enjoy the finer things in life, including our holes,” Bilbo says, still quite unable to believe that Thorin is standing in front of him.

He is dressed in the same clothes as the evening they met, but without the furred coat. His hair still tumbles over his shoulders in waves, the candlelight from Bilbo’s chandelier highlighting the silver streaked throughout it, making Thorin look even more distinguished than before. He looks like a lord, Bilbo thinks, and smiles to himself as he imagines Thorin in a crown, leading his subjects.

“I am glad to see you again, Bilbo,” Thorin says, looking at him and smiling broadly. “You will join me tonight at the inn, will you not?”

“I’d be glad to! To hear such wonderful music again… well, I may have been telling my neighbors all about the dwarves of the Blue Mountains,” Bilbo says, in a rush, embarrassed. “I think I’ve gotten them all eager to see you lot, so I’m very glad you came. And that… that I could see you again as well.”

Thorin gazes at Bilbo, his eyes soft, a small smile dancing around his lips. “My friends were insistent we stay in the Shire for a few days,” he says warmly. “I would be glad to enjoy your company until we must away.”

Bilbo would rather not think about Thorin leaving at all but he is overjoyed to know that he will be in the Shire more than one night. “That sounds wonderful,” he says, unable to stop smiling. “Now come along and I’ll show you to the kitchen before we start cooking.”

“We?”

“You didn’t think I’d be doing all the work myself, did you?”

Thorin chuckles, following Bilbo through the hallway, passing by the untidy study and into the kitchen. “I am not the finest cook. The evening may end in disaster.”

Bilbo laughs. “I’ll be here to guide you,” he says, gesturing grandly around his small kitchen. “And my first pantry, right along here…”

He heads across the hall and into his pantry, beginning to gather mushrooms in his arms.

“First pantry?” Thorin asks, sounding amused, watching Bilbo juggle the mushrooms but seeming to know his help would be turned down if he offered it.

“Well, a respectable hobbit has at least two. I have three,” Bilbo says, stepping back into the kitchen and unloading his burden. “Do you dwarves not have more than one?”

“Our appetites do not seem to rival a hobbit’s,” Thorin says, looking around Bilbo’s kitchen, still smiling.

Looking quite at home, if Bilbo may say so, and he ignores what that does to his heart. He is already amazed at how at ease they seem with each other, as if the few days apart hadn’t even occurred, almost as if they have known each other for years. Bilbo has already been thinking Thorin is special and this only cements it for him. He has always had a hard time getting along with others, too different for the Shire for some hobbits’ tastes but with Thorin, it’s as easy as breathing. That has to count for something.

“I hope that you’ll at least have room for dessert,” Bilbo says, smiling back, bouncing on his toes, feeling exceptionally fine.

“Still a surprise?” Thorin asks, cocking an eyebrow.

“Hopefully a good one. Not that my baking is ever turned down here in Hobbiton,” Bilbo says, puffing out his chest.

Thorin laughs. “I am eager to try it,” he says. “I have been looking forward to a meal with you.”

Bilbo blushes a little but he grins nevertheless. “Then let’s get started, shall we?”

He fetches pie dough and a flank steak from the cold box, as well as vegetables, milk, flour and seasonings in different cabinets in the kitchen. Thorin seems to be eager to help despite his supposed lack of skills in the kitchen and Bilbo is more than glad to enlist him. Bilbo gets the oven ready while instructing Thorin to begin cutting the steak into cubes, tending to the mushrooms and potatoes himself. Thorin wields a kitchen knife well enough but that doesn’t stop Bilbo teasing him for being overly careful with it.

Bilbo cooks the steak and mushrooms in a pan with butter and herbs while Thorin watches, a smile softening his eyes. Trying not to get too lost in them, Bilbo makes a thick brown gravy and has Thorin line his pie dish with the dough, filling it when everything is ready and sticking it in the oven. The potatoes are boiled, the vegetables sautéed, and after a while of dancing around each other, working rather flawlessly together, they have a meal fit for a hobbitish feast.

After pouring an ale for them both, Bilbo sits at the kitchen table with Thorin, cutting into the hot pie and serving Thorin and himself. It smells delicious and Bilbo surreptitiously eyes Thorin for a reaction, smiling to himself when he sees the hunger evident in Thorin’s eye.

“I am eager to tell Dwalin of this,” Thorin says as he cuts into his pie. “We have not had such a fine meal since we were in the White Mountains.”

“That’s just cruel,” Bilbo says, laughing and taking a bite. “Perhaps tomorrow night I should invite the rest of your company over for a feast.”

Thorin looks as if he’s not fond of the idea for a moment before he looks sheepish. “They are eager to meet you,” he mumbles, stuffing the piece of pie into his mouth, his eyes lowered.

Bilbo bites his lip so he won’t smile as widely as he wishes to, grabbing his ale and taking a large gulp. “Have you spoken about me?”

Thorin still doesn’t look up, nodding. “They wished to know who I spent my time with in the Prancing Pony. They have repeatedly told me I prefer to spend my time alone.”

“Are they wrong?”

“…no,” Thorin says, glancing up from his plate, his cheeks tinged pink. “But that does not mean I do not enjoy the company when it is right.”

“So you don’t often share ales and tales with patrons at inns where you sing?” Bilbo asks lightly, pushing a carrot around on his plate.

Thorin’s smile is wide and on the faint side of amused. “No, Bilbo, I do not,” he says warmly. “My companions think you must be different.”

“Oh, well… I’m a rather average hobbit, you know.”

“So you do not often share ales and tales with wayward musicians?”

Bilbo laughs, his own cheeks warming, and shakes his head. “I’m afraid this is my first time. Second, I suppose,” he says, smiling. “Wayward?”

“Perhaps not so much,” Thorin says, eyes glittering in amusement. “Not anymore.”

And Bilbo can not do much more but grin and eat the rest of his dinner, too filled with joy to be able to think of something to say, but it is wonderful to share in companionable silence with Thorin.

Once Thorin has cleared his plate, he leans back with a sigh, “That was a truly remarkable pie, Master Baggins.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo says, chuckling, taking a drink of his ale. “You had a hand in it as well, so thank you, Master Oakenshield. Ready for dessert?”

Thorin looks mildly pained but he gamely nods nevertheless. “I am eager to see what it is.”

Bilbo smiles, standing and fetching both his sweet potato and cherry pie from the pantry, as well as clotted cream, bringing them to the table and setting them down. “I’m rather known for my pies and scones. I hope you’ll enjoy a slice of each.”

“I will not be able to sing tonight,” Thorin warns but he is eyeing the pies with obvious want. “Perhaps a sliver of each.”

Bilbo serves Thorin a bit more than a sliver each but he doesn’t complain, especially not when topped with cream.

Unfortunately it keeps getting stuck to his mustache and Bilbo has a hard time not staring at Thorin as he licks it away. He makes for a tempting sight and Bilbo has the strongest urge to reach across the table and pull Thorin in for a kiss but… it still wouldn’t be quite right. He thinks he’ll know when it will be but when Thorin gazes back at Bilbo, his blue eyes infinitely deep and soft, well… perhaps he isn’t the only one resisting urges.

They chat lightly over the rest of their pie, Thorin strongly declining another slice, before they clean up the kitchen. It’s a much faster job between the two of them and when they’re finished, Bilbo shows Thorin the rest of Bag End. He tries to skirt by his study but Thorin insists on stepping inside, admiring the maps Bilbo has in frames and littering his second desk, trailing his fingertips over them, pausing on mountains in the east before Bilbo can drag him away.

They sit in the sitting room with lit pipes and talk easily with each other, exchanging more tales about their travels and where they enjoy going most. Thorin favors mountains, which is no surprise to Bilbo, while he himself favors the forests of the world. But from the way Thorin speaks of mountains, Bilbo wishes to see more of them and hopes that when he next sees Gandalf, he can convince him to take him to one of the dwarf dwellings. Thorin makes them sound enchanting, full of the wonders of the earth, strong and fierce in their strength.

Time moves a bit too quickly for Bilbo and soon he is telling Thorin that it is nearing seven in the evening. They put out their pipes and leave the smial together, beginning to head down for the Green Dragon Inn, which is brightly lit on the Bywater Pool. As they round it, Bilbo looks at the forget-me-nots that grow by it, thinking how beautiful they would be wound in Thorin’s hair.

Once they have entered the inn, Thorin is swept away by the other dwarves who are waiting for him and Bilbo goes to find a table, ordering himself a fresh ale.

He watches as the dwarves surround Thorin, some glancing his way, grinning worryingly wide. Thorin’s cheeks seem to be red and he avoids everyone’s eye, much to Bilbo’s amusement.

“Your dwarves are finally here, Mister Bilbo!” a familiar voice cheers, the seat next to his suddenly occupied by Hamfast Gamgee.

“I thought it’d be another day or two,” Bilbo admits, smiling at his neighbor. “But I’m glad they came so you lot can see what I was rambling about! They are very talented musicians.”

“And that tall one there,” Hamfast says, pointing at Thorin. “He’s the harpist?”

Bilbo coughs a little at the way Hamfast is grinning at him. “Yes,” he says, lifting his chin. “And he’s truly wonderful.”

“Aye, aye, I don’t doubt it,” Hamfast says, sounding amused. “A good lookin’ fellow, don’t you think?”

“Well,” Bilbo says, pulling his ale closer. “I can’t say I’ve noticed.”

Hamfast only twinkles at him much the same way Gandalf does when Bilbo is evading questions and he grumbles to himself, drinking deeply from his mug.   
  
The inn steadily fills up, most hobbits having heard musical talent has come to the Shire, and soon all tables are more occupied than they’re designed to be. Bilbo greets friends and family, always putting in a good word about the dwarves, until everyone seems as excited as he feels to hear them.

The dwarves arrange tables to their needs and soon Bofur stands atop a stool, greeting everyone with his solemn, “The dwarves of the Blue Mountains.”

It is met with a wall of cheer anyway, hobbits raising their mugs, shouting out greetings to the musicians.

Bilbo looks for Thorin, who is lurking in the back with an ale, and wonders if this is how he must start all his evenings before singing. He smiles to himself, drinking his ale and waiting for the dwarves to begin.

It starts with Bofur’s fiddle, Dwalin’s viol and Fili and Kili’s flute and fiddle. It is a lively song meant to get the crowd going and it does, hobbits roaring happily, always in the mood for a good song. They clap their hands in time with the beat of the music and the dwarves grin broadly in return, more than they did in Bree. A few even look to Bilbo, raising their instruments in cheers and he raises his mug in return.

The dwarves play high, fast songs, some familiar to Bilbo and some not. Bofur recites poems, most amusing and lewd, and bows to each thunderous applause and laughter he is met with. The ballads are just as sweet as they were in Bree, the laments as sorrowful, and the overtures as fun to clap along to. Some hobbits, once further into their cups, stand and grab their sweethearts, dancing between and atop tables, the dwarves crying their various encouragements.

Bilbo is happy to see the tip jar is filling fast and stands to add his own, peering over the dwarves into the corner, where Thorin sits.

Thorin looks up from his ale, catching Bilbo’s eye, and smiles, inclining his head just so.

Bilbo grins back at him and wanders back to the table, sitting down and ignoring Hamfast and his wife Bell’s looks. She had joined them halfway through and Bilbo is glad for the company, even if they keep waggling their eyebrows at him.

“Well, he did wander around for some time before he found Bag End,” Bell calls over the music when Bilbo is done rolling his eyes. “It wasn’t hard to see him go up the hill and straight to your door.”

“It was just dinner,” Bilbo huffs back, downing the rest of his ale. “Now shush, he’s coming up to play.”

Bell and Hamfast exchange an amused look but don’t say anything more as the dwarves quiet down and make room for Thorin.

Thorin comes to the front of the table, carrying his golden harp, and sits at a stool waiting for him. He doesn’t look out at the crowd, instead plucks a few strings of the harp, which inspires more cheer from the gathered hobbits.

Bilbo notices a small smile on Thorin’s lips and does his best not to swoon, waving his hand for another ale.

Tolman Cotton brings him one, winking at Bilbo for a reason he doesn’t quite understand, and Bilbo takes another deep drink just before Thorin starts his set.

It is the same song as the first night, slow to begin, fast to continue, sweet and soulful, played by enormously skilled hands. Bilbo watches in awe, forgetting everyone else around him, ensnared by Thorin’s performance. The harp seems like a hard instrument to learn but Thorin makes it look so very easy, his large fingers moving delicately over the strings. The rest of the hobbits in the inn seem just as taken by Thorin and keep quiet as he plays, all watching him with varying degrees of awe of their own.

And when the song ends, the inn erupts in cries, hobbits leaping to their feet to hurry to the tip jar, adding coppers and silvers. Thorin bows his head to the applause, waiting for everyone to seat themselves before he begins to sing.

It is not the same song he sung in Bree.

This… this is a love song. And when Thorin looks up from the harp for the first time, catching Bilbo’s eye, he feels his breath get taken away. He watches Thorin, hanging on his every sung word, the tale of two lovers familiar and warm, causing his toes to curl and tingle. Thorin smiles the faintest smile, turning his attention back to the harp, and finishes the song in his low timber.

Everyone cheers, including the dwarves, and some hobbits rush to Thorin, taking up his hand and giving it a mighty shake. He looks bemused by this but he bows his head at the praise and glances in Bilbo’s direction often enough that he wonders what his fellow hobbits are saying about his last song.

Thorin stands, bowing to more applause, and makes his way to the back again, Bofur taking his place for one last riff on his flute.

The dwarves’ tip jar is filled nicely and Bilbo knows more will be added as the evening goes on. When the songs end, some buy rounds of ales for the musicians, Bilbo included, and gather around to speak with them. Bilbo makes excuses with Hamfast and Bell, who tell him it’s perfectly fine for him to seek out whoever’s company he wishes and, blushing, he goes up to the dwarves, some nerves in his belly.

“It’s Mr. Boggins!” one of the dwarves, Kili he remembers, cheers suddenly, catching the attention of all the others.

A great roar of appreciation rises up from the dwarves, some standing to clap him on the back, ushering him closer.

“We heard how you were singing our praises, laddie,” a dwarf with a white beard says, smiling kindly over his ale.

“Oh… well, yes,” Bilbo says, highly aware of all the dwarves staring at him, including Thorin, who is seated at the end of the table. “You are the finest musicians I’ve heard in a long while.”

“Cheers!” some of the dwarves say, raising their mugs to him.

“Oh, aye, and Thorin hasn’t stopped singin’  _ yer _ praises,” the bald dwarf, Dwalin, says, leering at Thorin.

Bilbo blushes, coughing a little, sipping on his ale as Thorin glares at Dwalin.

“He has been generous to us,” he mumbles. “To me.”

_ “Very _ generous,” Fili, the blond, says, smirking at his uncle.

“You lot deserve it,” Bilbo says, gratefully taking a chair that the dwarf with a great red beard kicks out for him. He’s still a bit nervous with all of the dwarves staring at him as they are but they seem kind enough and they are Thorin’s closest friends, so he suspects he can trust them. “I hear you’ll be in the Shire for a few days.”

“Aye, Thorin insisted on it,” Kili says. He grunts a moment later, in what sounds like pain, and reaches down to seemingly rub at his knee, glaring in the direction of his uncle.

Bilbo recalls that Thorin had said his  _ friends _ insisted on staying in the Shire and raises his eyebrows at Thorin, who quickly averts his gaze, his cheeks red. Bilbo tries not to laugh, instead turning his attention to the rest of the dwarves, beginning to ask them their names so he remembers them better.

They are a very merry bunch and after another ale or two, Bilbo is feeling distinctly more relaxed, laughing along with Bofur’s stories and Fili and Kili’s antics. Some Shirefolk come to speak with the dwarves, always mentioning Bilbo’s ramblings about them, saying that for once he wasn’t telling tall tales about who he has met on the road. If only they actually believed that none are tall tales.

“We’re only gonna be in the Blue Mountains for a few weeks, ye know,” Bofur confides later on, leaning in close to Bilbo. “Then we’re off again. The summer is long, after all, and we need to make a livin’. I don’t see why we can’t come visit the Shire again. S’not just ye that’s been generous to us.” He slaps the tip jar in front of him.

Bilbo feels hope light in his belly. “Oh, that would be wonderful,” he says with a glance in Thorin’s direction. “The Shire would welcome you all back as old friends. I’d be glad to entertain one evening as well.”

“Are ye a fine cook?” Bofur asks skeptically.

“Ask Thorin,” Bilbo says haughtily, drinking from his ale.

“Oh, aye, I’m sure Thorin has enjoyed whatever’s been given to him,” Bofur says, snickering. “He had a mighty fine spring in his step when he came in this evenin’.”

Bilbo blushes again, scowling mildly at Bofur, who only winks at him. “My pie tends to do that to people.”

“Yer pie,” Bofur repeats, grinning across the table at Fili and Kili, who look far too eager to make fun of their uncle.

“Do you know what,” Bilbo says, perhaps one too many in his cups, “I think I shall ask Thorin to take a walk with me.”

“Don’t leave yet!” Kili cries, looking forlorn. “We’re just getting to know you, Mr. Boggins!”

“Baggins,” Bilbo corrects, shaking his finger. “And you’ll get to know me plenty tomorrow night. You all are invited for supper.”

There is an uproarious cheer to this, the dwarves pounding their mugs on the table, and Bilbo giggles a little, looking at Thorin. He feels his amusement ebb away because Thorin is gazing at him, his expression soft and open, full of affection. Something that Bilbo hasn’t seen aimed at himself in a very long time.

He swallows dryly, leaning down closer to Thorin. “Would you care to take a walk with me?”

Thorin stands abruptly, nearly sloshing his ale but he coughs and inclines his head. “Aye, I would like that,” he says, shooting a glare at his nephews as they laugh at him.

Bilbo smiles, raising his hand in farewell to the dwarves. He and Thorin begin to make their way across the inn, stopped various times by many hobbits, all who have a kind word to say about Thorin’s music. He thanks them graciously but by the time they reach the door he looks a bit overwhelmed.

“I am used to praise but not of this magnitude,” he admits when Bilbo asks, stepping into the cool evening, the sounds of the inn muffled behind them.

“We very much enjoy music and dancing in the Shire. You’ll be the talk of Hobbiton for some weeks,” Bilbo says, smiling. “Bofur says you… might be able to come back when you next leave the Blue Mountains.”

“Aye,” Thorin says, beginning to walk alongside Bilbo. “I have thought of it. It seems we will do well the next few nights. We will always have to stop in the Shire in our travels now.” He smiles at Bilbo, looking quite pleased at the idea of it.

Just as pleased as Bilbo is. He grins, excitement laced in his stomach, walking with Thorin slowly on the edge of the Bywater Pool.

The stars are gleaming tonight, bright and close, constellations easy to find. It smells like fresh water and grass and the forget-me-nots just ahead and Bilbo breathes it all in, feeling more content than he has in a while.

Thorin’s hand brushes against his and it seems the most natural thing in the world to clasp it in his.

They walk hand-in-hand along the pond, speaking in low tones, mostly about their plans for the next few weeks.

“My sister will be envious she missed such an experience as the Shire,” Thorin says, sounding amused. “She would enjoy it here.”

“It’s a very fine place,” Bilbo says. “She should come down with you lot sometime.”

“If I could convince her to leave her duties, I am sure she would welcome the opportunity.”

“Everyone needs a walking holiday occasionally,” Bilbo says. “I’d love to meet her, she sounds wonderful.”

“She would love you,” Thorin murmurs, sounding contemplative.

Bilbo looks at him in time to see his cheek flush red and laughs, squeezing Thorin’s hand.

They come to stop by the patch of forget-me-nots and Bilbo reluctantly lets go of Thorin’s hand so he can bend down and pick a bouquet of them. It is dark but the bright blue flowers are still a beautiful sight and Bilbo holds the flowers out to Thorin.

“They would look lovely in your hair,” he says, feeling far more brave than he has in an age.

“In my hair?” Thorin asks, taking the bouquet, his cheeks still stained red, a smile on his lips. “Is this a Shire tradition?”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo says, stepping closer. “You weave them in the hair of your sweetheart as a declaration of intent.”

Thorin gazes at Bilbo, his eyes crinkled, and smiles broadly. “Then you would do me a great honor,” he says quietly, handing the flowers back to Bilbo.

He takes them with a grin and gestures for Thorin to sit at the pond’s edge. “You’ll get many stares when you go back into the inn. Maybe a few questions too.”

“Let them ask,” Thorin says as he sits, sounding joyful. “I will be glad to answer.”

Bilbo sits in front of Thorin, resting the flowers in his lap and raises his hands, hesitating before he touches Thorin’s hair. “Hair is very important to dwarves, isn’t it?”

“Aye,” Thorin says. “Meant to only be touched by our families and lovers.”

Bilbo feels a thrill go through him at the idea of being Thorin’s lover and sits up straighter, tingles shooting up and down his spine. “I’m not overstepping my bounds?”

“No, Bilbo, you are not,” Thorin says, his voice warm. “I wish to wear your flowers.”

“Then so you shall,” Bilbo says, sighing shakily. He touches Thorin’s hair, the strands silky and cool to the touch, and lightly runs his fingers through it, watching as Thorin’s eyes slowly shut. He looks content, not afraid or hesitant, and Bilbo feels his heart skip a few beats.

He has never felt this way about someone and is both terrified and exhilarated by it.

Bilbo begins to pick apart the flowers, weaving them slowly through Thorin’s hair, enjoying the feel of it, the experience of it. He works steadily as they breathe each other’s air, not letting himself think about the uncertain future. He wishes to stay in this moment with Thorin, this beautiful, perfect moment where nothing can get in their way.

When he finishes, he glides his fingertips over the flowers along Thorin’s hair line before he lowers them, hesitantly taking up Thorin’s hands. He raises them to his lips, kissing the back of each, and when he looks at Thorin, he loses his breath.

Thorin is unspeakably beautiful in the bright moonlight, the stars shining overhead, giving a blue sheen to his hair and highlighting the flowers in it. His eyes are dark but brilliant and he is smiling so achingly wide Bilbo’s heart aches to see it.

“May I kiss you now?” Bilbo asks breathlessly, suddenly afraid of rejection, even if he knows he won’t find it. He feels as if now is the perfect moment to kiss Thorin, just what he has been waiting for, and he doesn’t wish to waste more time.

“Yes,” Thorin murmurs, looking shy but enraptured by Bilbo.

Bilbo tentatively lifts his hands, cupping Thorin’s cheeks, feeling his soft beard below his fingertips. He lightly scratches it which makes Thorin grin all the wider and they lean in toward each other.

The first brush of lips is soft, chaste, searching for permission still. It is given gladly by them both and they meet again, their lips pressing together with far more insistence, slowly moving against each other.

Thorin’s lips are gentle, gliding easily over Bilbo’s own, but his next press is more urgent and Bilbo meets him gladly.

They open their mouths to each other and Bilbo tastes ale and  _ Thorin _ and nothing has ever tasted more right to him. He slides his arms around Thorin’s neck, pulling him closer, until Thorin slips his arms around Bilbo’s waist and pulls him tenderly onto his lap.

Bilbo leans against his chest as they continue to kiss, steadily deeper, hands roving over each other’s backs. They only pull apart far enough to breathe in air, pressing their foreheads together. Bilbo runs his hands over Thorin’s back, feeling thick muscles beneath his fingers, and drinks in the sight of Thorin with his eyes closed.

“Say that I can stay with you,” Thorin rumbles, opening his eyes and pulling back just far enough to look into Bilbo’s. “Say that we can sleep in each other’s arms.”

Bilbo smiles, lifting his hand to brush some of Thorin’s hair back over his shoulders, minding the flowers. “There’s nothing I would want more,” he says, leaning in to place a kiss on the tip of Thorin’s nose. “Stay with me tonight, Thorin. Stay with me every night until you must leave… but come back to me.”

“I will,” Thorin swears very seriously, taking Bilbo’s hand in his. “I will come back to you. I will come back to you every time, Bilbo.”

“Good,” Bilbo sighs, pressing a sweet kiss to Thorin’s lips. “Because now that I have you I don’t particularly feel like letting go.”

“Perhaps you would like to travel without the wizard?”

Bilbo laughs. “On the road with dwarves. Musical dwarves!” he says cheerfully. “Now that I think I can do.”

Thorin grins, looking entirely pleased by this. “You can be my muse.”

“Goodness, that’s quite a lot of pressure. I hope I never let you down.”

“I have a feeling you never could.”

And Bilbo can do nothing more but kiss Thorin again, holding him tight, and later when they return to the Green Dragon, there is another great cheer from their fellow hobbits and dwarves. They say good night and go back to Bag End, where memories will be made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my absolutely incredible beta [telltalelily](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/telltalelily) for being such a champ!
> 
> It was really nice to write them this way and I hope you enjoyed it. Please remember to leave kudos and a comment!
> 
> [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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